


Communion

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (Bye Harry), Blood, F/M, Murder, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-09 02:23:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14707319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: Their bond is sealed (aka, Petyr and Sansa fuck in blood).





	Communion

If he were being honest, she handled it much better than he would have expected.

The blood bubbled out of the open slash at the throat in great quantity, bright and then dark as it pooled underneath the body, soaking the white linen until it was unrecognizable. The candlelight gave the whole scene an unearthly quality, as if he were stepping into one of his own dreams, seeing only fragments though the fog. Sansa herself looked very much a part of the scene, the white of her nightdress as ruined as the sheets, her pale skin spotted with color. Her hair was braided, falling over one shoulder, and the two reds seemed entwined. She was a mess of white and red, color and nothing, and it made his breath freeze in his throat.

He had told her to keep her hands clean but seeing her there, the stains up to the wrists, he wondered  _why_.

“It had to be now,” she muttered into the darkness, not meeting his gaze. She was speaking to Harry, to the lifeless boy in front of her, the one she had slashed into with the thin blade clutched in her hand. The blade had been used at their evening meal; he could spot it a mile a way. He pictured Sansa sliding it up a voluminous sleeve of her gown and then walking, sharply, up the stairs. Petyr looked back of every interaction of the meal and wondered when she decided this, when she knew that tonight would have to be the moment. He decided it had to be a cumulative event; nothing in particular stood out as warranting his death, though it was long overdue.

He had not been surprised when he had heard the soft knock on his door, when she came to him cloaked, when she extended a much-used hand to him and begged him for his help.

Help he could, help he would. It would be nothing to plant the knife on some servant, to have Sansa sob, to make her garments look like that of the bereaved —that she had clutched at this boy’s body, that she wore his blood because she tried to bring him back to life — but they had to act fast and, at the moment, he himself was having trouble moving on.

He was watching her in the flickering light, seeing her for what she had become, longing for a taste.

Petyr closed the distance between them, the edges of his dressing gown sliding against the rushes. “Of course, sweetling.” He came up behind her and slid a hand over her wrist, the one holding the blade. He moved and she moved with him, until the knife was set aside, among the bloodied sheets, until she was pressed against his front and he could feel her breathing.

It was a labored breath, that much was certain, but he was unclear on when it had started.

(That he was getting blood on his gown was of no matter to him — it could easily be tossed to the flames, though he would regret the loss of such fine green silk).

“Petyr…” she started, a plea in her voice that made him hum. How often had her heard her beg like that in his mind, when the drink took him and he needed some release or when he watched her, unobserved, as she went about some private business?

She could feel him though the silks, he knew it. For a moment she did not move an inch, the air between them heavy. The scent of blood was everywhere, an iron and earthy smell that got stuck in the throat. All around them was silence and death and they stood opposed to it, alive, their hearts pounding in their chests. He could feel it in her, could see it in the flush of her cheeks as he swooped to run his mouth along her jaw. Excitement ran through her, her body on edge from this insane act of defiance, of freedom. He had never expected it from her and yet here they where and here Harry was, and he wanted nothing more than to show his appreciation.

She repeated his name when he brought their hands low, when he pressed them against a stained thigh, moved them to the apex. Only this time his name was a breath, tinged with something — warning, need, he knew not what. In all honesty he did not want to know but he held that sound in his mind, placed it among his fantasies, knew that he would call upon it soon enough.

“You did well,” he said, sliding up further. He felt her stiffen and then come apart in his arms, relenting as he pulled at the silks, as he brought their twined fingers up to tease her core. That she was not wearing smallclothes brought a sound from the far back of his throat, thick and coarse. That she allowed him to slid his fingers forward, to part her lips, to mix blood there, made it almost impossible to contain himself.

Sansa was slick and warm and  _open_  and he wondered for how long she had been that way. He did not press the issue. With his free hand he reached behind to unbind the soon-to-be lost dressing gown. His cock had been hard almost from the moment he entered the room and now it was almost impossible to deal with, the need coursing through him. He was going to spill no matter what and to have her so pliable and needy in his arms was a gift he did not intend to waste.

Sansa pressed back against him and made a little cry that caused him to move his hand over her mouth, “None of that,” he spoke sharply against her skin, moving his fingers from her slick slit with a delicious sound. “You don’t want anyone to enter here, do you sweeting?” The words were a purr, a threat.

His fingers wet with her, with Harry, as he took his prick in hand. He pressed her down against the bed, so that she was leaning in the blood, his hand still keeping her quiet. He teased her lips with his head, unwilling to let the moment pass too quickly, to let the play end.

“Such a needy girl,” he clucked his tongue, his voice infused with laughter. “Is this why you came to me?” He entered her an inch and it was bliss; she cried out. “Is this what you wanted?”

She didn’t speak, merely pressed back against him. He could feel the shame running though her body and it caused his prick to twitch, made him press fully into her. He had often pictured her blushing, relenting and hating herself, feeling used and needing more. He had thought about what her family would think and could not help but picture what Catelyn would do if she saw this scene, saw how like  _him_  he had made her.

He pushed into her again and again, his eyes moving from the back of her head to the boy who had her first, the dead boy whose blood he was working into her, whose seed he was replacing. He felt powerful and dug his other hand into her hip, anxious to leave a more visible mark.

He did not speak, conscious of their position, but gods did he wanted to. He wanted to let a filthy string come from his lips, he wanted to abuse her with words, he wanted to ensure she knew how like  _him_  she now was. He hoped that this act would suffice, that when she felt him slide out of her later, felt him drip between her legs, she knew who she belonged to.

She came first and he smiled with pride. She collapsed on the bed in shame as he spilled into her, as he gave her everything he had been holding back. She curled into him when they relaxed, when he kissed her throat and promised her he would take care of this.

She was, after all, his now.


End file.
